


When Monsters Weep

by sennawritesthings



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sennawritesthings/pseuds/sennawritesthings
Summary: Nesta would never be soft, sweet, and caring like darling Elain. She would never be the courageous, dreaming, favored Feyre. She would always be what her mother had called her—feared her to be—the angry girl who was too much, who reached for things too high, and now she was the angry fae who was too much, who hurt people out of spite.
Relationships: Amren & Nesta Archeron, Amren/Nesta Archeron
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> some things have been changed on purpose and some things have been changed accidentally since it's been a long, long while since i've read the books, and honestly... i don't really want to open them again or even look it up 😅
> 
> *trigger warning for suicidal thoughts in chapter 2

She was wanted for murder.

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t meant to take the lives of those at the pub she favored. She didn’t even know how she’d done it. She just knew that between one breath and the next, the pub was merry, rambunctious, and then an eerie silence settled upon it, only broken by the thuds of lifeless bodies falling to the floor, heads slamming on counters and tables, glasses shattering.

Nesta had been left standing. Nesta had been left feeling their powers, their talents, dreams, _every damned thing_ swim around in her gut, mixing with her drink and refusing to leave when she tried to force herself to vomit as if doing so would bring everyone back.

It had been an accident, but it wouldn’t matter.

Not when she’d already been marked a villain for refusing to bow to the royalty of Velaris, to somehow thank them for bringing her and Elain into a life neither of them chose, and for choosing to forget with the aid of the bottle and the bodies of men she couldn’t even stomach. Not when she’d been carved out and forgotten until it was convenient to be remembered.

She could plead her case all she wanted, try to make them see that she hadn’t done it on purpose, hadn’t done it to shame them or bring dishonor to their court, but unless an apology for her accused hatred of her sister was wretched from her, unless she acknowledged the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court as her sovereigns, unless she laid herself bare for them without them reciprocating the same to her, it wouldn’t matter.

Rhysand was not her High Lord, and Feyre was not her High Lady. She was her sister and theirs was a relationship that, deep in the tresses of the heart she’d steeled long ago, she feared would always be broken.

Like the one she had dared to hope for, even if it was only for a little while. But she’d broken that too, and like the blood on her hands, she didn’t know how to fix it. Any of it. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to.

Running away didn’t help, but Nesta didn’t see the alternative. She could stay, and have them belittle her as they’ve been since she’d arrived, not bothering to ask her… anything. Or she could leave and find the place where she was safe. The place where she belonged, if there was a place like that for her.

Maybe she did hate her sister, just a little, for having that place, for being so readily accepted even in her former court. For being someone people wanted.

Nesta would never be soft, sweet, and caring like darling Elain. She would never be the courageous, dreaming, _favored_ Feyre. She would always be what her mother had called her—feared her to be—the angry girl who was too much, who reached for things too high, and now she was the angry fae who was too much, who hurt people out of spite.

She stumbled upon an abandoned cottage, far out in the forest that harbored creatures that made her skin crawl. She’d been sure they would have made a meal out of her, but though she could feel them at her heels, the creatures stayed away.

She pushed open the door, and her nose wrinkled at the stale scent of fried hair. She shuddered at the shelves and tables covered with jars of creatures, treasures, and—she gagged. She didn’t want to know. Every part of her screamed to run away, but much like everything else, Nesta tucked her instincts away.

She inhaled deeply, and curled her fists at her sides to steady their trembling. Upon her exhale, she slid to the floor, her back pressed against the cottage door. She hugged her knees to her chest on her next inhale.

She liked to believe she was strong, stronger than most people, human or fae. She liked to believe she was indestructible now, with her immortality and whatever monster hid inside her.

But even she was not strong enough to stop the broken sob that clawed its way from her throat. She wasn’t strong enough to stop the tears that trickled down her cheeks, dampening her dress at her knees. She wasn’t strong enough to stop the tremors that raked though her, or to stop her body from slinking further to the ground until she was a writhing ball of guilt, fear, and exhaustion.

Nesta wept long into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

She dreamed of things she longed wished to forget.

A headless King of Hybern rests against cell bars, shaking with laughter that she can’t hear. He sits upon a throne, crooking his finger at her—no, not at her, at his minions behind her and Elain and orders them tossed in the Cauldron. His body shakes with the same silent laughter, and though she can’t see it, she can feel the gleam in his eye, the mockery of her threat to him.

Plunged in the Caldron, she was plagued with memories of her mother and father doting on Elain and then Feyre. Her mother being afraid of Nesta’s ambitions to want more than the humble life they lead. Her mother’s death, and her father’s slip into oblivion following it. Her hunger and fatigue that screamed to her father _look at me, help me_. Thomas trying to get his hands on her, Feyre being pulled away by a beast; Cassian always—always—standing too close for comfort, and in her space despite her telling him to do otherwise, all played with the backdrop of the war and the whirling souls of the fae from the pub.

She felt the fingers of the man at the pub tighten around her thigh, remembers wishing it was the cold, but familiar brush of slender fingers instead of his meaty sausages and his hot, egg smelling breath was the cool, gentle wisp of air of the owner of slender fingers. She sipped her drink, full of miniature heads of a laughing King instead of ice and the blood that drenched the battlefield.

She heard the screeches of a little girl with her same features, crying for someone, anyone, to help her, to save her. She saw her at the bottom of the Caldron, banging her hands on the sides, calling out for her parents until her voice went hoarse, until it went out altogether and she settled on the bottom, hugging her knees to her chest.

Forgotten. Alone.

Just like her.

She felt an all too familiar caress on her mind, and she slammed her the shield to her mind shut, jerking upright from her slumber. Beyond the door, she heard a curse. She knew that power, though it had been watered down. She knew that voice, though she’d tried to block it out even as she yearned for it to be directed to her again.

Nesta would never tell them—or anyone—that she still felt the Caldron, despite its breaking and reanimation. Just like she would never tell them about the deep, soul shattering ache she’d felt when the fae behind the door jumped into the Cauldron. She’d never tell them how when the Caldron broke, she was tethered between the trapped soul in the Caldron and the earth.

Stirring in the chimney sent debris down to the fireplace. Nesta waited until the stirring came closer before she wretched the door open… and ran straight into the arms of the one she’d been trying to run from.

Silver eyes barrel into her, making her knees tremble. She relishes in the warmth that embraces her, the scent she has memorized and wants nothing more than to bury her nose in her neck, before she remembers the pub, remembers the fight that broke out between them, remembers that Nesta isn’t the one she wants, and she shoves her away.

“Nes—”

Nesta is already backing away, back into the cottage as she follows, trying to get a hold of her again. Nesta wishes, prays, she was anywhere but there. The narrowed silver eyes widen, a hand reaches out, and Nesta vanishes from the cottage in a blip and lands in a field that she recognizes as one by her old home, the shack she’d lived in with her father and sisters before wealth was suspiciously bestowed on them once again.

She lays on her back, staring up at the sky. She wishes she had wine. Rum. Anything. Against the roil in her gut when she thinks of it, she wants to lure someone into her bed. But instead she lays on the cold ground, blankly watching the clouds drift through a sea of blue, wishing she’d died in that Cauldron.


	3. Chapter 3

She stared at the hand wrapped tightly around her wrist and tried not let it get to her.

The seller had managed to snag her just as she was getting away with a loaf of bread and an apple she’d taken to go along with the rabbit she’d caught that morning. He snarled in her face, gripping her tighter when she tried to pull away, run from the gathering crowd, and for once Nesta wished she had kissed everyone’s ass back in Prythian to learn to fight beyond than the defensive moves she knew.

Not for the first time, she marveled at the contrast of this seemingly unknown and forgotten continent she’d reached when she’d snuck aboard a ship months ago to Prythian. Here, humans and fae lived in harmony along with several other species that she had yet to learn a name for. Here, there were no High Lords or Ladies, the people ruled together: one human representative and one fae representative for each country.

Here, she was not Nesta, sister to the High Lady of the Night Court, wanted murderess, victim of the King of Hybern, keeper of the Cauldron’s power. She was simply Nesta.

And, apparently, that meant no matter how unnerving she may be to some, most were not afraid of her. She found it both refreshing and irritating to say the least.

She tried to remember Amren’s lessons on control as she fought against the man, fought against the growing crowd of spectators, fought against the Cauldron’s power brimming beneath her skin, a pot threatening to boil over, but the man pulled her ever closer, and all she could see was Thomas, trying to force himself on her before she got away. Cassian invading her space over and over again. The countless men she’d taken to bed, never truly allowing them to touch her unless it was guided by her hand, picturing them as someone else, while trying to keep the bile in her throat down because it was what she deserved, wasn’t it?

Someone tugged at the bag on her shoulder.

No, it wasn’t.

A puppet on a string, Nesta twisted her arm until the man’s hand fell from it. She gripped his face and then she opened her mouth. Without her senses inebriated, she could clearly see the moment the man’s life was drawn into her body like a wraith moving from one host to the next, but instead of inhabiting her, it pooled into the depths of her, reminiscent of her body suspended in the Cauldron.

When he toppled to the cobble beneath their feet, the confused murmurs of the crowd turned to gasps and screams, and Nesta tried to reign the power in, tried to rebuild the dam she’d broken, but there was nothing she could do to stop those closest to her from the fate of the seller. She could feel them inside of her, life begging to be given.

But Nesta only knew how to take, not to give.

Full of those she’d stolen from, she whirled and fled to the hovel she’d more or less broken in to for the very few items she carried with her, mostly whatever scraps of food she’d successfully hunted and gathered before donning a new cloak and wardrobe and sneaking on a ship to someplace new.


	4. Chapter 4

There was no more running for Nesta.

There was nowhere else for her to go.

Not when the dark haired, silver eyed fae, stood before her, somehow looking down at her despite Nesta being several inches taller than her. The trees that surrounded her adding to the shadows that swirled around her.

Nesta was tired of running, anyway. She was tired of hunting and stealing food or clothes. She was tired of having to build herself shelters if she didn’t find one in an abandoned building, or break into a relatively unused home, or seduce her way into a roof over head. She was tired of fighting the creatures that dared to engage with her, thinking her a meal. She was tired of not having control over her power.

She was tired of being alone.

She curled her trembling hands around the strap of her pack, clenched her teeth to keep them from clattering together, but she didn’t break away from Amren’s steady glare. She didn’t drop her chin or her shoulders even as Amren stepped closer and closer to her.

Amren had always been intimidating, even without her former godly powers inhibiting her, but Nesta had never been afraid of her. There had always been something within her that Nesta found safety in, found a home in.

Nesta held her breath against the overwhelming fragrance that was Amren, a scent that didn’t go away even after her transformation. A scent that Nesta knew in her sleep, just as easily as she knew her gait, her voice. She dreamed of the sharp features she’d memorized during their lessons, craved the closeness they used to share, wondered what it would be like to have her as more than just a tutor.

Her proximity brought her back to the moments in Amren’s apartment when they sat so close, her mind being teased with sharp, unrelenting claws, drawing her ever closer. Her heart races at the ghost of the smile she’d earned for properly locking Amren from her head.

“You were much more difficult to find than I imagined you’d be,” Amren said, her voice steady and cool, giving nothing away to her thoughts.

Nesta could test her strength and force her way into Amren’s mind, but she knew better than to attempt it. She hadn’t been able to do so before, and she doubted, even with Amren slightly weaker now, she would be able to. She smirked, reading Nesta like an open book without even having to reach into her being.

“You erupted.”

It was the second time Nesta broke in front of Amren. The first had been shortly after she and Elain had arrived in Velaris. The centuries old creature had asked her something simple, easy almost as if she’d cared about her at the time. She just broke. Amren didn’t hold her, she didn’t coddle her. She simply let Nesta fall to bits, and when she was done, she helped her pick up the pieces before slipping back into her no-nonsense ways.

Nesta stiffened as Amren’s arms came around her shoulders. She hadn’t even noticed she’d fallen to her knees in her despair. She shamelessly gave in to the tether that tugged her to the elder fae, wrapping her own arms around the tinier frame, her raft in a raging sea. She drank in her scent, relished in her warmth while missing the cold she’d grown accustomed to.

“I know it wasn’t on purpose,” Amren murmured in her hair, her fingers tangled in the strands, stroking her head tenderly. “You can come home, Nesta.”

Home. Nesta didn’t have home, not even when she was human. The only home she’d thought she had wasn’t hers, and would probably never be. Her sobs racked though her body. Amren held her tighter.

“Come home, Nesta.” A plea weaved through the small demand. She felt her lips touch the crown of her head.

It gave Nesta hope she didn’t have a right to want.

“Come home, you fiery, horrid girl.”

Nesta almost laughed. She felt another kiss press against her head, an oddly delicate hand slipped between them, fingers lifting her chin until their eyes met.

Firmly, Amren said, “Come. Home.”

Nesta didn’t have to read Amren’s thoughts to know that though she meant Velaris, she didn’t _only_ mean Velaris. Her chin wobbled, threatened with another wave of tears.

“Did you know?”

Nesta shook her head. She cleared her throat, choking back her emotions. “Not until the Cauldron broke. Even then, I didn’t… I didn’t understand it until…” She sniffed. “Until he died, and Feyre shattered.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

She shook her head again.

How could she, when she’d chosen another? How could she when Amren was loyal to them, and would do nothing to harm them for all her pretenses? How could she when Nesta broke what they had, choosing a life of drinking, sex, and solitude over Amren’s constant, extended friendship—the only one to offer it to her? She was given a slow blink in return. And then, though later Amren would say she’d been dreaming it, the corners of her lips curved upward. Amren gripped her chin a little tighter, pulling at her to raise her to her feet.

“Get up, menace. You were not made to kneel before anyone. Even me.” Nesta got to her feet. “It’s all been sorted. You can come home.” She paused, her fingers traveled down Nesta’s arm to her hand, intertwining with hers. “Come home.”

Nesta liked to believe she was strong, but what was strength really? She liked to believe she could do it all on her own—that she _was_ alone. She liked to believe she would forever be the girl who was made only to be feared by others. And maybe she was. She didn’t entirely mind it.

But it didn’t make Nesta a villain. She was unapologetic for things that didn’t require apology. She was headstrong, knowing what she wanted, when she wanted it, and how she would get it. And she was angry, yes, she would always be angry, about herself, about the world, but she could learn to manage it properly.

She would start with an overdue apology to her sister. Only after she ensured she would receive one as well.

Amren said it best: she wasn’t made to kneel. So she would not claim her sister and her mate as her High Lord and Lady. Velaris truly wasn’t her home, and those that ruled it truly weren’t her friends, and they would never be. She would find somewhere else, close enough to visit Elain… and Feyre if she forgave her enough to build the relationship they never had a chance to have.

She would visit the families of the lives she accidentally took, take their judgement, and find a way to bring their loved ones back even if it took her centuries. And then Nesta would focus on the things _she_ wanted.

Still… Wanting do to things, knowing they need to be done and confronting her wrongs and pointing out her rights, actually doing something, gave her pause. She could do these things, she could prove to the world that beneath her prickly manner was someone worth knowing and supporting. But once given an impression, it was hard to take it back.

It frightened her to even try. She was used to giving out pieces of herself, only to have them thrown back, damaged, unusable. She’d learned from early on how to harden herself from it.

Amren didn’t pull away when she gave her fingers a light squeeze. She felt Amren’s heated gaze study her carefully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Like many things with Amren, the words came easy to her. And like with many things, Amren knew Nesta was apologizing for more than just the accident at the pub, or the town. It was how they worked. She knew Nesta was trying.

Though it would be difficult, Nesta _would_ try. For herself is no one else.

Amren squeezed her hand in return.

And pressed a kiss to the corner of Nesta’s mouth.

“Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know what i hate more than anything? when you're in the shower and what you want to write comes to you exactly as you want it written, but you don't have anything to write with and by the time you get out of the shower, you've partly (or fully) forgotten what you envisioned and the end product is nothing like what you had planned. that's what this was. i had it perfectly, and the end result... is only semi-like what i wanted. the gist of it is there at least.
> 
> needless to say, i've invested in a waterproof notebook. and i hope you enjoyed it with all its less than perfect ways. one day i will write a much, much better nestamren fic 🥺 thanks for reading! 💕


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